


The Hard Part

by Twisted_Mind



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Altered Mental States, Alternate Universe - College/University, Blackouts, Bondage, College Student Stiles, Come Swallowing, Dubious Consent, Forced Orgasm, Fucking Machines, Gags, Grooming, M/M, Manhandling, Manipulation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Medical Procedures, Mindfuck, Nurse Peter Hale, Object Insertion, Omega Sheriff Stilinski, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Oral Sex, Reproductive health, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-03-29 06:06:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13920954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: “Stiles, there really isn’t any point in fighting me on this. I’m here to take care of you. It’s my job to provide services like this. It’s why Registered Alphas exist.”He spends a long moment having a staring contest with Peter while he considers his options. He doesn’t like any of them. But he is, unfortunately, starting to get shaky and nauseous without his meds—his last dose was Thursday, because the semester started Friday, and he’d wanted to put this off for as long as possible. He’s paying for it now. "Fine."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DenaCeleste](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DenaCeleste/gifts).



> This got wildly out of hand, first of all. And the blame for that lies pretty squarely with DenaCeleste—without whom this would not exist—as well as Green, Bunnywest, and Triangulum.
> 
> Secondly: Peter’s behaviour here is pretty unethical and gross, because **this whole fic is just one big excuse for a medical kink trash party** that went and grew a plot on me, somehow (DENA AND BUNNY'S FAULT). So mind the tags, they might update if the ending surprises me, and be careful with yourselves. 
> 
> Thirdly: There are notes at the bottom about how I've structured this universe, if you're confused/want context. 
> 
> Happy Friday! *pops out of dumpster to throw confetti*

 

Stiles loves his dam. Best dam ever. Except for right now.

“I don’t even have words for how unnecessary this is,” he grumbles.

John gives him a dry look and doesn’t release his grip on the back of Stiles’s neck. “Except that I know you, so I know exactly how necessary it is.”

And then they’re through the doors to Berkley’s Omega Services. The receptionist is a gorgeous brunette, hair covering all but the “L” on her nametag. “Hi! Here to register?”

“Yep. This one’s gonna need some support while he’s here.” John ignores his whine. “Someone who won’t put up with his shit and is able to kick his ass is necessary.”

Shockingly, the lady nods. “We’ve got a few Registered Alphas on staff who are capable of that. I’m assuming a standard form isn’t going to be enough here?” John waves the file folder in his other hand. It’s at least half an inch thick. She nods again, and stands. “Let me just check and see who’s available to do an interview. Back in a sec.”

Stiles sulks while they wait for the receptionist to return. His dam doesn’t let go of him. When she comes back, she’s got an older man with her. Even before the guy’s close enough to read “Peter Hale, R.A.” on his nametag, it’s obvious he’s an alpha. He’s all broad shoulders and muscled bulk and faint stubble.

“This is my uncle Peter. If everything goes well in the interview, he’ll be the R.A. assigned to your son.”

Peter nods. “Thank you, Laura.” He turns to Stiles and his dam. “Right this way.”

They follow him to an office with a shockingly neat desk. Stiles wants to be here even less than he wanted to be in the lobby. Peter sits, and gestures to the guest chairs. “Please, have a seat.” Once they have—John finally letting go of Stiles—he asks, “So what brings you to me?”

“My fucked-up body,” Stiles grumbles.

John isn’t impressed. “Your body is perfect, Stiles. Your attitude, on the other hand, could use some work.”

Peter looks amused. “I’m starting to understand why my niece asked for me specifically. What’s going on, and how can we help?”

Stiles tries to tune his dam out, but can’t. He wants no part of this. “My son has extremely difficult heats, and the hormonal imbalance doesn’t help. He’s been on synthetics since he was eleven.”

Peter’s eyebrows shoot up, and Stiles tries not to blush. “That’s a very young age for a child to go on pheromones.”

“Yeah, well.” The tiredness in his dam’s voice makes him duck his head. “My wife, and his sire, died about ten years ago. Stiles was eight. Docs have a lot of theories, say it might’ve been the trauma, or the lack of ambient pheromones, but all I know for sure is that my kid had his first heat five years too early.”

“I see.” Peter rested his forearms on his desk, expression serious. “And how’s the pheromone therapy working? I know there’s some,” he pauses, slanting a look at Stiles that goes ignored, “issues with tolerance to them, after prolonged use.”

John sighs. “Yeah, that’s why we’re here. After a while, the oral meds didn’t work, and they had to switch him to a suppository.” Stiles feels a violent flush turn him red from his ears to his chest. “He’s also had to have his dose increased several times. He’s on some pretty heavy stuff now, to keep him stable.”

There’s the sound of flicking pages, and Stiles knows the guy’s checking his file. Peter whistles. “30% solution? That’s enough to incapacitate most omegas your age.”

Stiles doesn’t know if he appreciates Peter talking to him rather than about him, so he gives a tight smile and doesn’t reply. Peter goes on. “It’s also a controlled substance. One that we have to be very careful about on campus.”

John’s nodding, and Stiles feels the bottom of his gut drop out. “What does that mean? Won’t I just pick up my prescription from the university pharmacy every week, like back home?”

Peter’s shaking his head, and surprisingly, so is his dam. “Back home you were being monitored by me and Melissa, and the same doctor that delivered you. There were special circumstances.”

He looks from his dam to the R.A. “So what does that mean?”

Peter takes over. “It means that I—or, if you have your case assigned to someone else, another R.A. from the clinic—will visit you twice a week to administer the prescribed dose.”

He’s mortified, and it feels like his heart is gonna beat right out of his chest. “You’re _joking_.”

Peter gives him a sharp look. “You don’t know this, but we’ve had issues with students overdosing on these meds at this campus, or selling them to others who wind up addicted. New policies were put in place over a year ago, and we haven’t had a student die from overdose since. I understand that you’re probably uncomfortable with the idea—”

“—well, that’s one fucking word for—”

“—Language!—”

“—but the fact remains that you need this medication to be healthy and successful at Berkley, and the university needs to protect its students,” Peter finishes, ignoring the interruptions.

“Okay, yes, I can see how that would be a problem. _However_ ,” he gestures broadly to forestall the protests he can feel coming, “the fact that I do not want a stranger poking around my omega-parts should matter, okay?”

Peter dips his chin, smirking. “I agree, and it does. But I would hardly call us strangers, now.”

He’s tempted to flip the guy the bird, but doesn’t, because his dam is right there. “One conversation about my jacked up biology does not make you less of a stranger to me, pal.”

His dam’s hand on his knee cuts him off. “Look, can we get a copy of the paperwork to go over? I want to know what the protocols are and sign the consent forms.”

“’m eighteen, Dam,” he mutters.

John nods when Peter hands over the paperwork. “I know you are, kiddo, but if you’re not legally capable of giving consent, they need me to do it for you. And I want to make sure that there’s a solid system in place for you here when I have to go back home.”

“You can take that with you and go over it in detail. As long as we have page six filled out and all the necessary signatures on page seven before the semester starts, you can take your time.” Peter smiles, and it’s probably supposed to be friendly, but it puts Stiles on edge, somehow. “There anything else we need to talk about today?”

John gives him a look, and he knows where this is going. “Yeah, the fact that my son is absolutely pig-headed about this, so don’t let him worm his way out of treatment.”

Peter nods, but there’s a glint in his eye. “Any pointers on what to expect?”

Stiles gives up and walks out of the room when his dam starts talking about how he had to be sedated when his gynaecologist gave him his first suppository.

 

***

 

He argues a lot with his dam, but apparently, this is the one topic where he can’t beg, bargain, or browbeat John into giving him what he wants. He’s a legal adult, but his history of rebellion is working against him here—between John’s signature affirming consent for the treatment protocols he’d let Stiles look at, but not choose (“None of them, Dam, they’re invasive as hell”), and the letters from his doctors back home, he isn’t given much of a say in how this goes.

He won’t be given custody of his meds, and he can’t go off them. Not unless he’s willing to have an actual alpha supply the pheromones he needs the old-fashioned way, and his dad had signed the consent form for Peter provide that, too. There’s just no getting away from this guy.

Which is why he’s in an Omega Services clinic room on the first Tuesday of the semester for his first “administered dose”. He knows lots of omegas come to the clinic for a range of reasons, but he’d still felt something like shame when he shoved his suppository kit into his backpack before coming over.

Peter comes in and nods, breaking him out of his thoughts, closing the door before scrubbing at the sink. “So, the quickest way to get your meds in you and me out of your hair is for you to strip from the waist down—you can leave your socks on if you want—and bend over the table for me.”

“Of course it is.”

Peter ignores his sarcasm. “I’m assuming you brought your kit with you? We have plugs here, but one that you’ve chosen yourself is always better.”

“Yep, I’ve got it.”

“Great. Let’s get to it, then.” But when Peter turns, he can see that Stiles hasn’t moved from the plastic chair in the corner. “Stiles, there really isn’t any point in fighting me on this. I’m here to take care of you. It’s my job to provide services like this. It’s why Registered Alphas exist.”

He spends a long moment having a staring contest with Peter while he considers his options. He doesn’t like any of them. But he is, unfortunately, starting to get shaky and nauseous without his meds—his last dose was Thursday, because the semester started Friday, and he’d wanted to put this off for as long as possible. He’s paying for it now. “Fine.”

He pulls his kit out of his bag and tosses it onto the table before toeing off his sneakers and unbuttoning his jeans. He’s about to slide them and his briefs down his thighs when Peter whistles. He looks up, and sees his kit’s unzipped. “That’s quite large.”

He ducks his head as he finishes undressing to hide his embarrassment. He knows the knot on his plug is huge, but he can’t help it. He inherited a deceptively-wide birth canal from his dam, and the suppository gel needs to stay inside him, so smaller, more comfortable plugs just weren’t an option.

He braces his forearms on the table, and bends over. It’s quiet for a moment, and he startles when he feels Peter’s hand on his hip. “Your chest should rest on the table, to prop your hips up for me, and you’ll need to brace your feet further apart.” When he complies just to get this ordeal fucking over with already, he gets a, “Good, thank you,” and he has to bite back a retort.

He expects Peter to coat his plug in a low-saturation carrier gel, slide it inside him, attach the tubing, and push the plunger on his meds. Quick and easy, for all that it’s embarrassing. So Peter’s question takes him completely off-guard.

“Have you masturbated in the last 24 hours?”

He’s so fucking stunned he can’t answer right away. When his brain reboots, he splutters, “That’s none of your business.”

He can hear Peter pulling on latex gloves. “Stiles, I’m not putting something that big inside you without knowing you’ve been properly stretched. There’s a tearing risk, and given how strong your meds are, that creates the potential for overdose.”

He’s silent for a moment as he comes up with an answer. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry about it.”

He hears Peter dip his fingers in the gel, and then, suddenly, two are pushing inside him. He tenses, and tries to stand, but a hand on the small of his back keeps him where he is. “If you can’t assure me that you’re stretched enough to accommodate that thing, I’ll make sure of it myself.”

He wants to argue, maybe even flail. He definitely wants to tell Peter to go fuck himself. But the problem is that even though the gel is only a 3% solution, it’s enough to relax him a little. It makes him wonder if some of his jitters and snappishness is hormonal. Either way, he’s not so much cussing Peter out as he is panting quietly against the exam table as he’s stretched slowly. He whines when a third finger is pushed in with the other two, and Peter mistakes the sound for discomfort.

“You’re alright, sweetheart. I’ll be gentle, but I have to open you for that knot.” When Peter presses down, against his g-spot, his hips hitch, and Peter freezes for a moment. “Ah, I see. That wasn’t pain.” There’s a long pause, but Stiles can’t bring himself to speak. “Good to know.”

By the time Peter deems him ready for the plug, he’s nearly desperate to come and wishes he _had_ rubbed one out sometime in the last three days, if only because it would make this more bearable. When the hand on his back moves to his labia, spreading him open, he’s torn between embarrassment—he knows what he looks like right now, all swollen and red-pink and shiny—and relief that this’ll be over soon.

The tapered tip of the plug goes in easy, turned on as he is, and soon the top of the knot is pressing against him. The pressure is gentle, and he might be open, but the plug’s too big to be eased in. Before he can say anything, Peter’s fingers spread him wider, and with one forceful push, the knot is inside, and he has to grit his teeth to keep from howling at good it feels.

“Alright, just a sec, hard part’s over,” Peter murmurs.

All he can think is that it’s nice Peter thinks so, because he happens to disagree. He feels gloved knuckles brushing against his thighs as the port on his plug is opened and tubing attached. He stays still as the syringe is hooked to the tubing, as Peter presses the plunger, and then pumps gel in after, to push it through.

But the second the pheromones push through the tip of the silicone cock inside him, spilling over and filling his cunt, all bets are off. It burns and tingles in the best way, and he shakes, fighting the urge to rock his hips. He thinks he whimpers.

He doesn’t register Peter disposing of the tubing or closing the port, but he definitely notices when two gloved fingers start massaging his clit. “What the—?”

The heel of Peter’s hand starts pressing against the base of his plug in the same rhythm as the fingers working his clit. “Shh, sweetheart. It’s alright. An orgasm will help, will get the blood flowing where it needs to go to get the pheromones in your system.”

He knows that, has been told at every appointment ever with his gyno back home. “But you—”

“You need this. And I have the consent forms giving me the go ahead to give it to you.”

He wants to argue, but the rhythm Peter’s setting is too good, and he can’t do much but ride it out as every muscle in his body goes tight when he comes.

 

***

 

Stiles goes back to his dorm room kinda out of it. Between the pheromones and the knot, he thinks he’s allowed. But it’s why he doesn’t realize that there’s an appointment card in his pocket until he strips down and climbs into bed. It’s for Thursday afternoon at Omega Services, and he’s not sure why—he isn’t due for his next dose until Friday.

He calls the next day, when he’s more lucid, but he doesn’t get any answers.

“I’m sorry, but R.A. patient files are confidential, and I can’t access them. Even if I could, I can’t discuss them over the phone.”

He doesn’t lose his temper with Laura, because this isn’t her fault. But he’s definitely pissy about it. “Okay, well, as far as I know, I was supposed to have my next appointment with Peter on Friday, so could you check and see if that’s been cancelled or moved?”

“Yep, I can do that!” It’s quiet for a moment. “Nope, looks like you’re still booked with him for Friday afternoon. It’s a house call?”

He breathes until the shame is shoved back down where it belongs. “Okay, so you’re telling me that I see him tomorrow, and Friday?”

“Looks like? Did he not discuss this with you?”

“I don’t—I don’t think so, but I can’t really remember. A lot’s happened in the last ten days.”

“That’s fair. Look, Peter’s with another patient right now, but I could grab one of our other R.A.s to look into it for you, if you want?”

He doesn’t want anyone else seeing his file, but he needs to know. “Yeah, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Not at all. Just a sec.”

He gnaws on his lip while he’s on hold, trying to tune out the shitty music.

Before he can work himself into a solid freak-out, someone picks up. “Hello, there, sorry about the wait. I’m Duke, one of the R.A.s here at Berkley’s OS Centre. I’ve looked in the file, but all Peter noted was that he’s prepping you for your appointment on Friday. Terribly sorry I can’t tell you anything else.”

He swallows. “Yeah, well, thanks for looking.”

“Anytime.”

 

***

 

When he can actually think around the dread over the pre-appointment or whatever, he figures it’s probably about how Peter wants him stretched, or to make sure he cleans the plug or something.

And then Peter comes into the exam room and says, “Alright, Stiles, I’ll need you to strip from the waist down—you’ll probably want to take your socks off this time—and stand straddling the flushing station for me with your hands on the bars.”

And just. What? “Um, excuse me?”

Peter gives him a vaguely unimpressed look. “Yes?”

He’s blushing, because he has a horrible suspicion about this. “Flushing station?”

Peter points to the corner, which has rubberized flooring, steel handgrips at about waist height, and something that looks a lot like a little sink jutting out from the wall. “Have you never been flushed before, sweetheart?”

He’s blushing, again, and hates that his health management changed so drastically when he went to college. “I don’t think so?”

Peter nods. “Then I’ll walk you through it. You’ll straddle the basin, holding onto the bars for balance. I’ll check you over for any tears or tenderness while using a small device and my fingers to flush the leftover gel from your body. At this point, you’ve absorbed whatever you’re going to, and your insides could probably use a break between now and your next dose.” He pauses for a moment. “You’ve really never been flushed before?”

Stiles starts stripping down to avoid eye contact. “Nah. Back home, I was told to have, uh. A sitz bath? After taking the plug out.”

He hears an odd sound from Peter, and looks up to see the guy pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know, I’m starting to think you should’ve been seeing an R.A. before now. A sitz bath will help, but it can’t clear out all the carrier gel on its own, and flushing is useful in other ways for someone in your situation.”

He doesn’t mention that his gyno has been trying to talk him into seeing a Registered Alpha since he was fifteen. There’s no point, and he won’t give Peter the satisfaction. He makes a little sound of surprise when he realizes that the mat is heated, so his feet won’t get cold, and goes to straddle the thing when Peter stops him. “Other way, darling, facing me. That way you can lean back against the wall for extra support if you need it.”

His face burns. He really, really doesn’t want to watch Peter as the guy digs around his omega-parts. But he also recognizes that this is a battle he’s not gonna win—his dam’s already made it painfully clear that he wants Stiles to listen to Peter, to let the R.A. take care of him. Besides, if there’s an actual station built into the exam room for this, it can’t be that weird, right?

(Wrong. So, so, _so_ wrong.)

Peter sits on the rolling stool, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. He’s nearly eye-level with Stiles’s groin, but thankfully looks up at his face rather than talking to his crotch. “Ready?”

Stiles barely nods before Peter’s touching him. The first thing he does is pull Stiles’s labia open, revealing the base of the plug. “Ah, so this is still in. First order of business will be taking it out. I want you to take a deep breath in for me, and push on the exhale.”

He does as he’s told, and is actually glad for the railings as his legs wobble. Peter tosses it into the sink behind him. “Good boy. We’ll clean that for you, and I’ll bring it with me when I see you tomorrow.” And then Peter’s left hand is spreading him open again, and the guy’s brow furrows. “Hmm. I’m seeing a lot of redness, here. Is this tender when I touch it?”

Peter probes what is probably gently at his wrecked, stretched out opening, and he groans. “Of course it is, I’ve had a huge fucking knot in me for two days.”

Peter just tips his head in acknowledgement before picking up a slim, long-handled device. There’s tubing coming out the back. “This is the tool I mentioned. It’ll squirt a stream of purified water to flush out the gel. Depending on how congealed it is, I’ll help it along with my fingers. If anything hurts, I want you to tell me. If it’s sore or tender, tell me.” He winks. “If it feels good, feel free to tell me that, too.”

“Isn’t that a little—inappropriate?” Stiles sputters.

“How many times do I have to tell you that providing for omegan needs is literally my job? Pleasure is part of that.”

His breath hitches as the little tool slides inside him. Thankfully it’s slender, so it doesn’t really _hurt_ , but it’s uncomfortable. “I disagree, but whatever.”

Peter doesn’t answer, and the stream of water that suddenly hits his insides is shocking, but not bad. “It’s—hot?”

Peter hums, angling the spray elsewhere, and he fights not to shudder. “I thought it might feel better, given the tenderness.”

He nods, mortified as he feels the gel ooze out and plop into the basin. But he’s a big omega, so he sucks in a deep breath, clenches his jaw, and stares at the ceiling while pretending his face isn’t glowing hot. It’s why he’s startled when Peter slides two fingers into him without warning. He tries to stay still, but having those fingers massage his insides is the same mix of humiliating-arousing-delicious-wrong as the last time.

Only, this time, Peter can see his face. It makes staying still and mostly-silent a wasted effort. “Do you need a break?”

“Nope!” The last thing he needs is for this to drag out any longer than it already has.

Peter hums. “Do you want me to make you come?”

His chin drops to his chest as he yelps. “What? No! I just—why would you even ask that!?”

The only reason he sees Peter’s eyes narrow and jaw clench is because he’s looking. The guy’s tone doesn’t change. “Stiles, when I say that pleasure is an important part of what I do, it’s not an attempt to humiliate you.” Fingers twist inside him, releasing another clot of gel, and he can’t help wincing. “Your condition is hormonal, and if you don’t have a healthy libido, that could be a sign we need to adjust your meds.” The tool slides out, as do Peter’s fingers, and Stiles lets out a shaky breath in relief.

Unfortunately, Peter doesn’t seem to be done with him. “Of course, with you, a refusal to accept pleasure could mean any number of things, but regardless, it is important—to your health and ability to absorb your medication, but also because you deserve to feel good.”

He can’t hold Peter’s eyes. “Can I put my pants back on now?”

Peter sighs. “Not just yet. I’d like to apply a salve that should help with the tenderness before you go.”

And that . . . that sounds fantastic, actually. He barely remembers what it feels like not to be sore. So he nods, and Peter breathes out, nodding back.

Stiles holds his breath as Peter strips the glove off his left hand before squeezing a dollop of salve onto the fingers of his right. He eases two inside, rotating his wrist to spread the salve. It feels cool, almost tingly, and Stiles squirms a little. It feels good, but it’s also making him horny.

He’s thinking about how fantastic it’ll feel to rub out one out back in his dorm room when the fingers inside him hook on his g-spot. He can’t stop himself from moaning, or from clenching around them in response. “That’s what I thought.”

He looks down, but before he can ask what, exactly, dude was thinking, Peter’s mouth is on him, and the fingers inside him are pushing against his g-spot again. Stiles slumps against the wall for support as one hand moves to Peter’s shoulder to push him away.

But Peter doesn’t budge, flicking the tip of his tongue over Stiles’s clit, and Stiles doesn’t know what to do, can only grip the bar with one hand and Peter’s hair with the other, because he’s never—he hasn’t—no one has—

He feels like he shakes apart when he comes, and Peter stands quickly to keep him from falling over. “It’s alright, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

He pants against the alpha’s shoulder and thinks he should probably be freaked out by that.

 

***

 

After his second “administered dose”—and third orgasm—from Peter, Stiles calls OS.

“Berkley’s Omega Services Centre, Jennifer speaking, how can I help you?”

At first, he’s a little thrown by the fact that he’s not speaking to Laura. “Hi, uh, Stiles Stilinski calling. I’m, um, registered with you guys?”

“Date of birth, please?”

He obediently rattles it off, and a moment later she asks, “Yep, you’re in our system. What can I help you with?”

He swallows. “I’m, uh, currently assigned to Peter Hale, but I was wondering if I could talk to one of your other R.A.s about my case?”

She makes a sympathetic noise. “Of course, hon. We want all the omegas in our care to be comfortable. Sometimes that means a second opinion, and sometimes that means switching to a different professional. You have a preference for who you talk to?”

He shrugs, even though she can’t see it. “Not really? Peter’s the only one I’ve met, so I don’t even know who my options are, at this point.”

“Okay, so, I can set you up with Deucalion Blackwood, Kali Steele, Alan Deaton, or Marin Morell. Any of them sound good?”

He hesitates for a moment, and thinks he recognizes one of the names. “Can I meet with uh, Deucalion?”

“Sure thing. He’s free all day tomorrow, barring an emergency. When would you like to come in?”

Tomorrow’s Sunday, but he doesn’t really care. “What time does the Centre open on Sundays?”

“We open at ten.”

“Eleven?”

“Perfect, I’ll book you in. See you then!”

 

***

 

He’s not sure why he feels guilty about meeting with another R.A., but he does. He’s glad he doesn’t run into Peter as he follows Deucalion—“Call me Duke”—into an office similar to Peter’s, only much more cluttered.

When he settles into the guest chair, he notices the file on Duke’s desk. The R.A. sees him looking, and taps it with a finger. “I’ve been here since nine-thirty, so I decided to familiarize myself with your file. I’m not sure why you booked a consultation with me, but I have to say, after going through this, I have some questions.”

He doesn’t sigh, or roll his eyes at that. There are _always_ questions after someone new flips through his records. “I’m here because I’m not sure Peter and I are a great fit. And I wanted a second opinion on my current course of treatment.”

Duke nods. “Well, first off, I have to say I’m surprised you haven’t been to an R.A. before now. Especially since there’s no record of any sexual partners in your file.”

This time, he does roll his eyes. “Because there haven’t been any.”

Duke stares at him long enough that he starts getting uncomfortable. “You’ve never been knotted by an alpha?”

He feels his cheeks heat, but maintains eye contact. “No.”

Duke’s eyebrows creep towards his hairline. “I wouldn’t recommend that. You really should be taking a knot every week or so.”

Stiles very deliberately doesn’t grit his teeth. “I’m on synthetics, it’s fine.”

“It really isn’t.” He scoffs, but Duke goes on. “The synthetics were necessary when you were a child, and they exist to give you a choice, but you are developing a dangerous tolerance to them. Weaning you off them, switching you to organics, it would keep you stable and be better for you.” Duke leaned back in his chair. “If you took my knot for the rest of the academic year, you could safely go back on a low dose of synthetics over the summer.”

The presumption is what really gets Stiles. “I’m sorry, _what_? What are you saying?”

Duke rests his forearms on his desk and leans forward. “I’m saying that, were you my patient, I would begin immediately weaning you off the synthetics. You would come to the clinic approximately once a week so I could knot you. Depending on how things go, you might need more or less, but there’s no way to tell until we start. We would make a heat plan, and schedule it so I could attend you. While you could go back on synthetics over the summer, I would much rather refer to an R.A. in your hometown.”

Stiles can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. “So, what? None of what I think matters? I don’t get a say here?”

Duke gave him a puzzled look. “What is there to think about? I’d be your R.A. Your health would be in my hands, and in my professional opinion, this is what’s best for you.”

“And if I tell you I don’t want to be knotted?” Because he really doesn’t. And definitely not by this guy.

Duke’s expression goes strangely pitying. “I’d say that you think that now because you’ve only experienced an imitation of one. Your plug, the synthetics, they aren’t the same. Once you’ve taken my knot, you’ll change your mind.”

He’s fighting the urge to panic. “No, you’re not listening to me. If I don’t give you consent to knot me, what would you do?”

Duke chuckles, and it raises the hair on his arms. “My dear boy, you already have. You and your dam signed paperwork giving consent.”

“But only in the event of an emergency!”

Duke gives a little shrug. “What counts as an emergency falls under my purview as your R.A.”

Stiles never thought he’d be grateful to have Peter as his Registered Alpha. “Okay, so. It was great to meet you, but I don’t think we’re gonna work out. Thanks for your, uh,” he pauses for a moment, “professional opinion.”

Duke nods regally. “Of course. My door is always open to you, Stiles. Peter’s a good R.A.,” his lip curls a little, and Stiles suddenly wonders if there’s animosity between them, “but he’s a bit of a soft-touch. If you find yourself needing a firmer hand, you know where to find me.”

Stiles nods, gives a tight smile, and practically runs down the hall. If he also happens to mention to Jennifer that he wants a note in his file to never, ever send him to Duke if Peter’s not available, that’s his business.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The grossness steps up here, people, JUST SO YOU KNOW. Tags updated to reflect that, and be warned that Stiles loses time because of his heat. 
> 
> Also: this is late because this chapter was an utter bitch to write, and grew massive on me. I'm sorry/you're welcome.

 

He’s back the next day to be flushed, and it’s just as weird and embarrassing as the first time. Possibly weirder, since Peter tries to carry on a normal conversation with him while probing his insides with two gloved fingers.

“So, heat week is coming up.”

It’s possibly the one thing he wants to think about even less than what’s happening right now. “Yep.”

The fingers twist, nudging something that sends a zing of pleasure up his spine. Stiles squirms but manages to stay quiet. “What’s your heat plan?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Same as usual, really. Come to OS, get a dose of meds, IV fluids, and knocked out.”

Peter looks up sharply. “You spend your heats _sedated_?” He sounds like he can barely understand what he’s hearing.

Stiles doesn’t get why dude’s freaking out. This should’ve been in his file. “Yeah?” he says slowly, drawing it out. 

Peter’s jaw works for a long moment before he speaks. “I’d seen that you were checked into a clinic during your heats, but hadn’t gone over it in detail. I assumed that you were checking in with a partner so that you could be monitored in case anything went wrong. Do you actually mean to tell me that you’ve never had a heat partner?”

That . . . explains a lot, really. He’d assumed that Peter had combed through his file in-depth the way Duke did, but maybe that was a mistake on his part. “No? I mean, when my heats started, I was _eleven_. Dam and the doctors all agreed I was too young for partnered heats, and once I was older, I didn’t want to go to a Registered Alpha and no one at school wanted to rut with the Sheriff’s son.”

Peter lets out a slow breath, a muscle in his cheek jumping as he clenches his teeth. “So you’ve never had a partnered heat.” Stiles shakes his head. “Surely there would have been _someone_ you or your dam knew that could’ve partnered with you. From what I saw of him, your dam would’ve signed the consent forms while you were legally underage.”

Guilt starts to creep up his throat. “Look, I love my dam, okay? But he’s . . . he wouldn’t’ve had the time to interview and vet someone the way he wanted to. And I was never interested. Heats are shit, I’d rather not be awake for them.”

A strange look crosses Peter’s face at that. Dude looks like Stiles just gut-punched him. When blue eyes open again, they’re determined. Stiles has the feeling he’s not gonna like whatever’s coming. “Have you ever spent a heat conscious? Or are you always sedated?”

He sighs in relief as the flushing tool and Peter’s fingers slide free. “I’ve spent them conscious a few times, yeah. The first one, obviously, and usually one a year, so I can be reassessed. They’re fucking awful, and I’ve been trying to convince my gyno to put me on the shot so I can skip them, but she refused. Said I was too young to be messing with my cycles like that.”

“ _Good_ ,” Peter spits.

Stiles is taken aback by the sudden vehemence. “Jesus, what’s your problem?”

Gloved fingers slide back inside him, coated in the salve that is the sole upside to this entire process. “My problem,” Peter growls, eyes flashing briefly, “is that you have been robbed of every opportunity for not only pleasure, but normalcy with regards to sex and your heats.”

Stiles can’t hold back his snort. “There’s no pleasure to be _had_ in any of this,” he says flatly. “And the fact is, my body chemistry is fucked up. There’s nothing normal about it, and I wish everyone would stop telling me that it’ll get better if I just let an alpha knot me.”

Peter’s face goes smooth, and his eyes glitter in a way that makes trepidation spring to life in Stiles’s brain. “Really?” he murmurs, voice soft and dangerous. “There’s no pleasure when I do this,” he pushes his fingers deep and flexes them, making Stiles’s hips roll, “or this,” he drags them down to rub at Stiles’s g-spot, “or this?” he asks, eyebrows raised when his thumb brushes Stiles’s clit.

He doesn’t know what’s even happening right now, torn between hesitation and arousal. “Th-there is.”

“Mm, I thought so. You seem to enjoy it when I make you come, so what makes you think a heat spent with me would be awful?”

And, just. Stiles is done. He lets go of the rails to push Peter’s hand away, and kicks at the wheeled stool to get some distance. He stomps across the room and starts redressing, his eyes fixed on the floor. “It would be awful, Peter, because this isn’t a trashy romance novel or Lifetime movie. Your magic dick isn’t going to suddenly fix me, and I’m allowed to feel the way I do about my heats because I’m the one who’s had to live through them—not you. _I’m_ the one who has to deal with doctors and nurses and _you_ poking around my insides and trying to tell me how to feel and what’s good for me, like I’m not a fucking adult with a mind of my own.”

He whirls around to find Peter watching him with a soft expression, and it somehow makes everything worse. “I’m the one who has to deal with painful, dangerous heats. I’m the one throwing up and trying to claw my own skin off when I’m not sedated. I’m the one getting told that if I’d just roll over and take a knot like a good little omega bitch, none of this would be happening, like it’s all my fault my body chemistry is screwed up and I’m just being stubborn, like—” he breaks off, realizing he’s on the verge of tears.

He ducks his head, fumbling with the button and zip on his jeans, and then suddenly, Peter’s holding him, one large hand cupping the back of his head. “It’s alright, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

He hates that he lets Peter take his weight, that he clings, but he’s choking on tears and can’t find it in him to reject the comfort he’s being offered.

When Peter speaks, his tone is warm, soothing. “I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, Stiles, but I’m not trying to tell you how to feel. I’m not forcing you to take my knot. I’m not even telling you that you have to. I’m saying that you’re in a bad situation, and you’ve been failed.” He does cry then, shaking in the alpha’s arms. Peter holds him tighter. “Sweetheart, a partnered heat with a Registered Alpha just means that you’re being taken care of. It doesn’t mean you _have_ to take a knot. But there’s a reason why partnered heats are the norm, and it’s because the closeness of another person helps when you’re in that state.”

The hand on his head moves down to rub at his back. “Duke,” he mutters.

Peter’s tone doesn’t change. “What about him?”

He nuzzles against Peter’s shoulder. “That’s who, um. Who I spoke to. Most recently, anyway.”

“Ah.” He’s not sure what to make of the fact that Peter squeezes him tightly. “Sweetheart, Duke’s old-fashioned. He primarily steps in as a heat partner for omegas who need one. He’s qualified and licensed to deal with the medical side of things, but he rarely does, and doesn’t like to.”

“So you’re telling me he’s biased.”

Peter drops a kiss on his cheek, and that is probably his cue to un-octopus himself from his R.A., but he doesn’t move. “That’s a kinder term than what I would use, but it definitely applies.”

He takes a deep breath, and peels himself off Peter. “Okay, so. What—what does that mean, then?”

Peter cups his face, thumbs sweeping across his damp lashes. “It means that I’m going to take your file home tonight and go over it in detail, and then I’m going to call your gynaecologist. And then, you and I are going to make a heat plan, and you are going to _trust me_ to have your best interests at heart. Okay?”

He still hates the situation, hates that his heat is coming up, but thinks that he can try. “Okay,” he whispers.

Peter smiles. “Good boy.”

 

***

 

They’re back in Peter’s office, and really, the obsessive neatness is unnerving. Before he can comment on it, Peter slides some papers across the desk. “These are the standard heat forms. We’ll go over them together, and feel free to ask questions if there’s anything you’re unsure about.”

Stiles nods, taking a deep breath and reminding himself that he agreed to trust Peter. Looking at the paperwork, the first question is easy— _Will you be spending your heat with a partner_? He ticks the box labelled “Yes”, and writes Peter’s name in the accompanying space. Second question is a bit harder. _Do you consent to having your heat induced_?

He taps #2. “What does that mean?”

Peter looks down. “Induced heat?”

“Yeah.”

Peter raises his eyebrows. “Every omega’s heat cycle is different, the same as alpha’s ruts. But given how disruptive that can be, most take suppressants or stabilizers to regulate their cycles, help them fall in the allotted ‘heat weeks’. Of course it’s not exact, so often, omegas will opt to induce their heats to ensure they’re back to school or work on-time. Induced heats not only let them control when the heat starts, but also tend to shorten it by a day or two.”

Stiles has never heard of this. “Okay, but I’ve always been pretty regular, at least as far as I know.”

Peter shakes his head. “I checked your file—you’ve had your heat induced at least twice, according to clinic records.”

“What?” It feels like he missed a step going down stairs.

Peter sighs. “They were concerned when you didn’t hit heat immediately, and didn’t want to keep you sedated any longer than necessary, so they induced while you were already under.”

“Oh. That . . . makes sense, I guess,” he says slowly. It does, but it still doesn’t tell him what he needs to know. “How, um. How are heats induced? Since I don’t remember.” Stiles tries not to sound bitter about it. He doesn’t think he manages it, judging by Peter’s raised eyebrow.

“Heats are induced with a small dose of synthetic omega pheromones. Doctors and R.A.s write prescriptions for it all the time—the at-home version is a gel capsule with a 5% pheromone solution inside. Omegas can take them orally or rectally.” Stiles isn’t sure what his face does, exactly, but Peter picks up on his skepticism. “Believe it or not, most omegas prefer not to swallow them, because nausea is a common side effect.”

Stiles cringes. “Yeah, no thank you. I already have to deal with puking my guts up when I’m awake during hell week.”

An odd smile creeps across Peter’s face. “You don’t understand, sweetheart. Taking them as a suppository solves that problem for the majority of people. You could still opt to have your heat induced without the nausea being set off. And, according to your records, you were induced the usual way, when treating a hospitalized omega.”

It feels like his heart skips a beat as it suddenly jolts into overtime and he realizes what Peter means. “Oh fuck, you mean they shoved a pill up my ass while I was unconscious?” He buries his face in his hands.

“Not quite.” His neck snaps as he jerks his head up to stare at Peter. “In OS clinics and hospitals, standard treatment is a small liquid dose—about a teaspoon—pumped into the rectum. It doesn’t have as many side-effects, and it works faster, because there’s no waiting for the gel capsule to dissolve.”

Stiles can feel himself turning red. “Can I refuse to consent to that?”

Peter tips his head, folding his hands on the desk between them. “Of course you can. But it also means that you’ll have to be here for however long your pre-heat and heat last, regardless of whether or not that means missing classes and assignments. I’m sure your professors would be understanding, given the circumstances—there are always a few who come back late after heat week—but catching up is stressful.”

Stiles stares at the little tickbox labelled “No”. He wants to check it, but he also knows that, embarrassing or not, fast-tracking through his pre-heat is enough reason to agree. The sooner he gets his heat over with, the better.

His hand shakes as he ticks “Yes”.

The next question makes his lungs seize, and he has to close his eyes and count his breaths for a long moment. When he opens them, he reads it again.

_Which heat management methods do you consent to? Please check all that apply._ He skims down the list, looking for “sedation” out of habit, only to see that it’s been crossed out. He looks up at Peter, feeling a little lost, and a lot annoyed. “Really?” he asks flatly. “I’ve already agreed to being awake for this, to let you take care of me or whatever. Crossing out ‘sedation’ is a dick move.”

Peter shrugs one shoulder. “Perhaps, but your doc back home also suggested I do so as a precautionary measure, and she does know you better than I do. Now,” he leans forward and taps the form, “which options do you think you might be comfortable with?”

Even without looking, Stiles knows the answer to this one. “Honestly? None of them.”

Peter nods. “Alright then.” Stiles hopes for a brief moment that that’s the end of it, but Peter just reaches out and takes the forms, spinning them to face him. He ponders the list a moment before speaking. “Right, so. Given your past history and how difficult your heats are, I’m going to suggest putting you on the knotting machine, coupled with pheromone replacement. Not exactly the same as what you’re on now, liquid instead of gel, equivalent to what an average alpha in rut would produce, about 12.5% instead of your usual 30, but it would be a good way to simulate what a typical heat would be like for you and a partner.”

As much as he doesn’t want to be doing this, he thinks that might actually be the best way for him to get through this. “Yeah. Okay. That—that doesn’t sound too bad. But, um,” he takes a deep breath and hopes his face isn’t as red as it feels, “can you explain about the knotting machine? I’m not. I’ve only ever seen one in porn, and like, that’s not a reliable source of info.”

Peter smirks. “While we do have a set of restraints that we can lock omegas into if they consent beforehand, you’d have free range of your heat room. When you felt like being knotted or that you needed another dose of pheromones, you’d straddle the knotting machine, and I—or whoever was attending you—would turn it on via remote. There are different speeds, but you’d probably start slow, with the machine’s knot inflating to tie you to it after about fifteen or twenty minutes. Once fully inflated, the machine will administer a standard dose of pheromones that you should start to feel right away. The knot typically stays inflated for ten to fifteen minutes, unless you express to your R.A. that you want it longer. Any questions?”

He shakes his head. “No, you, um. You covered everything important, I think. Is that it?”

“No, sweetheart, that’s just your primary method sorted out. We also need to discuss backups, in the event that your heat can’t be controlled with the machine and standard dosing.”

Stiles ducks his head, fingers twisting in the hem of his flannel. “Do you think it’ll come to that?”

Peter looks up from where he’s writing on the second page of forms to give Stiles a sympathetic look. “I sincerely hope that it doesn’t, but given your history, we need to have backup plans and prior consent just in case.”

He nods, because Peter’s right. “Okay, um. Can I see the list again?”

Peter slides it over to him. “Certainly, sweetheart.”

He reads the list more in depth, this time. He ignores _oral knotting (extra-mandibular)_ , _oral knotting (intra-mandibular)_ , _vaginal knotting_ , and _anal knotting_ for now, and looks for what seems like a decent second choice. “What about my plug and my usual dose of pheromones? I know it’s higher than usual, but it’s gotten me through my heats before. If push comes to shove, we know it works.”

Peter nods. “Alright, check those, and then give me that back so I can fill in and sign off on the dosage.”

He does, and he thinks that, just maybe, this isn’t as awful as he thought it would be. Maybe his heat won’t be, either. “So, is that it?”

“Technically yes, for this portion of the form, but I have to ask. You know I have permission to knot you in case of emergency, yes?” Stiles nods slowly, his stomach feeling squirmy. “Which form of knotting with you prefer, if that becomes necessary during your heat?”

Oh. That’s—that’s not so bad, actually. “I, uh. Definitely not my ass. I’d probably be okay with my—vaginally? Except I’m not on birth control, so that’s not really a risk I want to take.”

Peter’s nodding. “We can arrange to get you on birth control after, if you’d prefer. It might help you anyway, but that’s something to look into another time. Our clinic also provides heat shots at low cost, for omegas who are spending a heat with a partner and need to be sure they won’t wind up pregnant.”

“Wow, you guys really have thought of everything.” Peter nods, pleased. “Then, uh, yeah. Vaginally, maybe?”

Peter leans forward, eyes searching his face. “You don’t seem particularly thrilled at the idea. Is there another kind you’d prefer?”

Stiles shrugs, staring into his lap. “I haven’t been knotted before, you know? And the concept of having someone stuck inside me for the first time, especially while I’m in _heat_ . . .”

“What about extra-mandibular knotting? It’s on our forms for a reason, you know.”

He looks up, eyebrows pulling together at the term. “What does that mean, exactly?”

Peter’s eyes gleam, and something about it makes him nervous. “It means that, while you would have my cock in your mouth, I would keep my knot outside your teeth. You’d have to swallow my come, to get the pheromones you needed, but there’d be no tying involved.”

He’s a little stunned. All the oral knotting porn he’s seen or heard of has featured alphas knotting their partner’s mouth, cock jammed down their throat and air hard to come by. “I mean, if it’s totally necessary, then yeah, I think—I think I could handle that.”

Peter nods, and fills in more of the form. It hits him, suddenly, that he wouldn’t have been able to have this kind of discussion, this much _say_ , if he had another R.A. “Thank you, Peter.”

Peter looks up, and smiles. “’No need to thank me, sweetheart. It’s my pleasure.”

 

***

 

Stiles packs light when he heads to OS. All he’ll really need is a clean set of clothes and toiletries so he can leave after his heat looking human, even if he won’t feel like it. He gives Laura a tight smile when she signs him in. There’s a one-page form, and he skims it quickly— _Are you signing into OS voluntarily? Do you have a heat plan on-file with us?_ —ticking yes, but stops at the next question. _Have you been provided with your requested supplies?_

He looks at Laura, who gives a half-smile. “Question three?”

He nods. “Yeah, uh.”

She tilts her head. “Follow me to the supply room. Peter should’ve put your box together.”

He trails behind her, trying not to blush at the things he’d had to request, reminding himself it’s their job to supply him with what he needs. His stomach is still twisting with anxiety, though. Laura pulls a cardboard box with his name on it from a stack of similar boxes that go a long way to making him feel better. “Here you are. Have a peek, make sure everything’s there before I take you back to your room.”

He lifts the lid, holding it so she can’t see inside. He fumbles and nearly drops the whole thing when sees an _entire bottle_ of heat-grade lubricant. He’d expected a few sample packets, maybe, but this—well, when he thinks about it, he understands Peter’s reasoning. He also sees a bottle of hormone stabilizers, a packet of sanitizing wipes and a small card. He looks back at Laura, nodding. “Yeah, uh, seems like everything’s here?”

“Great! So you can finish signing in, and then I’ll take you to your heat room.”

He follows her back out, ticks another box labelled “Yes”, and then follows her to a room that isn’t as claustrophobically small as he’d feared. He sets his backpack and the shoebox on a chair by the door and studiously ignores the lump of machinery on the large rubber mat in the corner. Instead, he checks out the bathroom. He’s surprised to see the little shower stall, but is grateful it’s here.

He showered before he came over, but the fact is, he’s gonna wind up a sweaty, sticky mess soon, and he’ll appreciate being able to rinse off when he’s lucid enough to. Other than that, there’s a standard sink and toilet, but no mirror.

Coming out of the bathroom, he can’t help but see the knotting machine. His guts tighten some more at the sight. The part of him that’s been in pre-heat for three days now is excited. Another part of him is curious about what it’ll be like, to be on it, but there’s also a part of him that wants to run screaming out of the building, that can’t help but remember how torturous his heats have always been.

Before he can spiral too far into bad memories, the door clicks open, and Peter walks in. “Hey, sweetheart. You ready?”

He jams his hands in the pockets of his jeans, and gives a grimace. “Doesn’t really matter if I am or not, at this point.”

Peter shakes his head, and crosses the room slowly. It gives him the time to notice that Peter’s in a soft-looking V-neck and clingy yoga pants, much different from his scrubs, or button ups and jeans. When he reaches Stiles, he moves slowly, pulling Stiles against him. “It’ll be okay, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you.”

He drags in a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. This close to his heat, the scent of an alpha does a lot to calm him, because biology is stupid. “Right. We have a plan, it’ll be okay.”

“Exactly.” Peter leans back to look him in the eye. “Just to double-check—you’re in pre-heat right now, right?”

“I’m hellishly uncomfortable, so yeah.”

Peter’s eyes narrow. “None of that, now. Symptoms?”

He rolls his eyes, because ‘hellishly uncomfortable’ pretty much covers it, as far as he’s concerned. But he dutifully recites, “Alternating hot flashes and chills, nausea when I’m not impersonating a black hole, and I’m probably dehydrated, I’m producing so much slick.”

Peter squeezes his sides before stepping away. “Okay. Then I’m going to go get your meds, and meet you back here. You should probably strip.”

He nods once, wanting to be naked about as much as he wants to be awake for this. But Peter’ll need access to give him the meds to induce heat, and as much as he’s dreading it, the fact that he can get it over with faster this way is reason enough to go with it. He peels out of his clothes as fast as he can, leaving them in a messy pile by the chair with his backpack before sliding into the bed. He might only be under a sheet, but it’s better than nothing.

He stares at the room until Peter gets back. It’s not much to look at—the machine and mat in the corner, bathroom to the left, chair by the door, a set of cupboards along the wall on the right, a mini fridge and microwave in the other corner.

He’s debating if he’s curious enough about what’s in the cabinet to risk being caught completely naked when Peter gets back. “Alright, Stiles, let’s get this show on the road.” Stiles nods reflexively, even though Peter isn’t looking at him, too busy locking the door and dropping a messenger bag next to his pile of clothes before setting a plastic tub on top of the cabinet. 

He can’t see what’s in it, but he recognizes the thing Peter pulls out as a modified syringe. “That it?”

Peter nods. “Mhm. Over onto your belly for me, that’s it.” He feels the sheet being pulled down, baring his ass, and he buries his face in his arms. “I’m going to add some lube, and this’ll slide right in. It won’t hurt, so just relax. Deep breaths, you’ll barely feel it.”

He tries to do what Peter says, but he still startles at the finger massaging his rim, coating it with lube. He takes a deep breath when he’s told, and breathes out as the nozzle prods against him before slipping inside as easily as Peter said it would. He can still feel it, of course, but it’s not—it’s less scary than it looks.

“And three, two, one . . .”

He can feel when the meds hit his insides. It’s like liquid fire, and he tries to jerk away, but Peter’s hand on his lower back holds him still. “Shh, shh, I know, baby, I know it’s intense. Just breathe, it’ll subside in a minute.”

He shakes his head, struggling, but Peter doesn’t budge. The burning doesn’t subside—if anything, it spreads, travelling deeper into his guts, down his thighs, and he whines, clenching around the plastic still inside him. Something’s wrong.

“No, baby, nothing’s wrong. It’s just your heat hitting. The meds are doing exactly what they’re supposed to do.”

He shakes his head. That can’t be right. Can it?

The hand that had been steadying the syringe dips lower, between his thighs, and Stiles can’t help his squeak when Peter’s fingers don’t so much brush against his folds as sink right inside him like a hot knife through butter. “Mm, good. You’re wet and opening nicely, inducing well.”

He doesn’t recognize his own voice when he mewls, “Take it out.” He’s not sure whether he’s talking about the fingers or the pheromone syringe, but Peter tuts.

“Let’s help you along, then.”

Peter’s fingers curl upwards, towards his tailbone, and another round of burning heat spreads through his guts. The only reason he doesn’t thrash this time is because he’s still shaking and trying to get his breath back. The fingers inside him spread, and he chokes on a moan.

“You’re nice and open now, sweetheart, so I’m going to take the syringe out, and then I want you to roll over onto your back for me.”

The syringe tip feels weirder leaving his body than it had going in, but mostly he’s just relieved that he doesn’t have anything in his ass anymore. He wants to be just as grateful for the lack of fingers in his vag, but can’t manage it. (But that’s just the heat talking.)

He doesn’t want to roll over for Peter, doesn’t want to be on display, so he stays where he is. Peter comes back from disposing of the syringe and huffs before flipping Stiles over so smoothly it takes his brain a moment to catch up. By the time he does, Peter has sunk three fingers right back inside him, and is thrusting gently.

“What?” No,” Stiles whines.

Peter smiles, and it’s probably supposed to be friendly, but his eyes are too dark. “Shh, baby, it’s alright. A good orgasm or two is just what you need right now.”

He bats at Peter’s hand, but he’s either weak with heat, or Peter’s pulling out alpha strength from somewhere, because the dude doesn’t budge except to thumb at his clit. “I’ll take care of it, sweetheart, you just have to lie there and let me.”

Just like every other time Peter’s insisted on making him come, he’s helpless to resist the orgasm that rolls over him. Unlike every other time, however, he doesn’t feel sated. He’s still burning up, producing so much slick that Peter’s fingers are squelching every time they push inside him, because also unlike every other time, Peter doesn’t stop.

“Too much,” he moans.

Peter shakes his head, rearranging himself between Stiles’s thighs. “No, baby, the problem is not enough. But it’s okay, I’ll help you, teach you how to enjoy your heats.”

Before he can protest that, Peter’s mouth is on him, and his hips jerk up into the moist heat, rolling as Peter’s tongue drags across his clit. He whines as Peter tucks a fourth finger inside him, but it’s not the disagreement he wants it to be—it feels too good, closer to what he needs.

But he still didn’t ask for this, even if his body wants it. “Peter, stop, I don’t—I didn’t give permission for this.”

Peter lifts his head reluctantly, and makes a show of licking his lips before speaking. “Sweetheart, you signed the consent form to spend your heat with me, agreed to let me take care of you. Now be a good boy, and let me.”

The teeth against his clit combined with the fingers still twisting and massaging his insides are too much. His orgasms are on a hair trigger because of his heat. He yelps, fingers tangling in Peter’s hair, as he comes a second time.

It leaves him wrung-out, dazed. So much so that he doesn’t realize, at first, why Peter’s moving him, and then he feels the rubber under his knees, and tries to scramble away. “ _No_ , can’t, it’s too soon!”

Peter’s grip doesn’t falter. “Shh, it’s alright, baby. You need the pheromones before you’ll start to feel better. The machine will start you off nice and slow, and I’ve opened you up so it won’t hurt.”

And then his hips are forced back, and the tapered tip of the knotting machine’s phallus slides inside him smoothly. Peter’s grip holds him still, and he expects to need to adjust, but he doesn’t—it’s not crazy-thick, his plug is honestly bigger, and he’s too well-stretched, too slick, for it to do anything but make him aware of how desperately horny he is right now. Before he can speak up, the machine creaks to life, rocking back and forth so gently, he doubts it’s moving more than an inch.

And, while it feels good, he’s still oversensitive from coming twice already, heat or no. He pushes at Peter’s hands. “Peter, stop, I need a break.”

Peter’s eyes glitter when he meets Stiles’s gaze. “No, you don’t.”

Unease flickers to life in his belly. “You’re not listening—let me go.”

“No, _you’re_ not listening.” Peter pushes him back against the machine, and the next thrust—a little harder, a little deeper than the last—prods his g-spot. “Heat is a biological process, designed for breeding. So what your knot-hungry little body needs is to think its being bred. You don’t need a break, you need alpha pheromones, and if,” he pauses when Stiles cries out at the harder thrusts, “that means holding you down until you’re too stuffed to crawl away on your own, so be it.”

Stiles feels more than he hears Peter. The phallus is moving faster now, all but pummeling his insides, and he can feel where it’s starting to inflate at the base. But even though it’s good, he struggles against Peter’s vice-like grip on his hips. This isn’t—it’s not—

“ _Take it_.”

His head snaps up at the deep, resonant growl. He mewls, too deep in the heat not to respond. Peter’s eyes are glowing, his lip twisted into a snarl. “You _take_ that knot, you understand me?”

“Yes,” he sobs, falling forward to brace himself on his hands. The machine’s phallus continues to piston in and out of him, the knot still expanding, but thick enough to catch on every thrust.

At his agreement, Peter’s tone gentles, and the hands at his hips slide up to cup his ribs delicately. “That’s it. It doesn’t have to be hard, sweetheart.”

“Hurts,” he gasps, breaths hitching. The thrusts are shorter now, the knot staying inside, but not yet locked. He’s tense, trembling with pleasure-pain. He feels like he’s on fire.

“I know, baby,” Peter murmurs, kissing his forehead. “But the synthetic come will help. You just have to open up your cunt and let it in.”

He clenches around the knot—which is huge, and _still_ expanding—at the lewdness of the word. He shakes his head, about to tell Peter not to say it again when the knot locks, pulsing as it suddenly spurts inside him, and he shrieks as the icy-hot liquid hits his inner walls.

“That’s it,” Peter purrs. “Taking it so well. Cunt full of come is just what you need.”

Between Peter’s filthy words and the rush of pheromones, he comes so hard he blacks out.

 

***

 

He blinks and tries to take stock. He’s hot, so hot he wants to climb into an ice bath, so he’s apparently still in heat. He swallows, mouth dry. He’s sticky, tracks of come half-dried down his thighs. It’s gross.

His knees hurt. He tries to shift, but can’t move—he’s stuck on the machine, the phallus’s knot fully expanded and locked inside, and can feel Peter’s hands on him, on his hips. “What—” he breaks off, coughing. His mouth is so dry.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m gonna give you a dose of your meds, help get your fever down. As soon as that’s done, I’ll help you take a drink.”

That. That sounds good. It feels like he’s baking in his own skin.

But he doesn’t understand why Peter’s gloved fingers are massaging his pucker. “Why?”

He whines when a small plug pops through his sphincter, nudging the fake knot inside him. He’s almost painfully full. Peter hushes him. “I know, I know baby. I know it’s a lot.” He speaks in a soothing tone, like he’s talking to a scared child. “But you’ve been aggressively riding the machine for four hours, and I can’t get you off it. Even if I could, it wouldn’t be safe to pump such a high dosage into your hungry little cunt, because you’ve probably got micro-tears, and the last thing I need is to have you overdose on me. So you’re gonna have to be a good boy for me, and take your meds up that pretty little ass of yours.”

Stiles can’t believe what he’s hearing. Peter’s never talked to him this way, and the quiet, honeyed tone is utterly at odds with the words themselves.

It hits him that Peter thinks he can’t understand. That he’s not lucid right now. If he’s really been on the machine for four hours, then he probably hasn’t been, but there’s no clock in here, no way for him to tell. His cell phone is across the room, in his backpack.

“Alright, and three, two, one . . .”

He feels the cold hit his insides, and nearly thrashes. Would, if not for the fact that he’s literally stuck right now. The cool feels so goddamn good that he moans, slumping against the floor. It feel like he can breathe easy, like he can rest.

So he does.

 

***

 

“Come on, sweetheart, open your mouth for me. That’s it.”

His mind stutters at the words, even as his body obeys. He realizes as Peter buckles a spider gag around his head that he must’ve lost time again, and he tries to object, fear slicing through the aroused haze, but he can’t speak around the metal forcing his jaw wide. He goes to unbuckle it, but he’s been tightly wrapped in the sheet off the bed, and he can’t move. He’s sitting on the floor, his back propped against the wall, and Peter’s feet are caging him in.

Peter must notice his distress, because he cards gentle fingers through Stiles’s hair. “It’s okay, baby. I’ll make it better, just like we talked about.”

He gurgles, not sure why he’s gagged and verging on terrified of the answer. He gets more scared and very confused when Peter tugs his pants down, freeing his cock. “Here you go, honey, nice and easy, that’s it.” Peter holds his head still, feeding his cock through the ring of the gag. He’s still confused, but he can’t help his moan when pre-come hits his tongue. Peter chuckles. “Yeah, baby, thought you’d like that.”

Peter’s hips roll forward, cock sliding smoothly through the ring, and he doesn’t want to like it, but he _does_. Peter’s moving carefully, going slow, his thrusts shallow, holding Stiles in place so he can’t lean forward and take more. He still tries, and it gets him a chuckle. “Yeah, I know you’re eager for it, but you’re brand new, baby. You’ve never had a cock in your throat.”

He whines, eager, sucking as best he can with his mouth held open by the gag. Peter groans and rewards him by pushing a little deeper. “You feel so fuckin’ good, sweetheart. I’d love nothing more than to fuck your face, knot inside those pretty lips and come down your throat, but you don’t want me to.”

Stiles furrows his brow. He doesn’t? He’s curious why Peter says so, because he wants the alpha’s cock like he wants air. Maybe if he asks, Peter’ll give it to him?

He hums out a ‘please’ as best he can, and Peter’s hips stutter. “I’d love to, sweetheart, but you wouldn’t thank me if I did. That’s why your sinful little mouth is gagged—I don’t trust myself not to choke you on my knot, and I definitely don’t trust a heat-drunk little knot-slut like you not to try and take it anyway.”

The sweet tone and the filthy words make something low in his guts twist. It’s wrong, but it also makes him acutely aware of how empty he is, how wet, how much he wants something inside him. He squirms, and manages to get a hand down to touch himself. He can’t spread his legs the way he wants, not the way they’re wrapped up, not with Peter’s feet bracketing his thighs, but he can get his fingers on his clit, and that’s enough for now.

Peter notices, and speeds up. “Fuck, that’s hot. Gonna rub one out for me, come with my cock in your mouth?”

He nods as best he can. He can see Peter’s knot starting to form, and watches the way it expands until a hand wraps around it, hiding it from view. Peter’s leaking a steady stream of pre-come, and it coats his taste buds, trickles down his throat in a way that makes him want to cough. He’s close, eyes closed and rubbing his clit frantically, chasing his own orgasm so intently he misses that Peter’s knot is full until he’s suddenly choking on come.

Peter doesn’t pull away, dropping the hand from his hair to his throat and massaging gently. “It’s okay, baby, I’ve got you. All you need to do is swallow for me, that’s a good boy.”

He doesn’t think Peter’s really talking to him, because the hand stroking his throat is making him swallow automatically without any input from him, but the praise is nice. He breathes, and tries to swallow on his own. Peter’s hand doesn’t stop massaging his throat.

“That’s my good boy, swallowing his alpha’s come. Keep going, you can do it—there’s more where that came from.”

 

***

 

Stiles wakes with a groan. He’s exhausted and sore, and would love nothing more than to go back to sleep, but his bladder is so full it hurts, so he has to at least pee first.

He flips the blanket off him, and wonders when he got under it. He also notices the IV line in his hand, which—would explain why he doesn’t actually feel like twice-baked death from dehydration. He stumbles when he stands—his knees are wobbly and hurt like a bitch, but he leans on his IV pole and makes it.

He collapses gratefully on the toilet, and wonders why he’s not sticky. Well. He is, a little—he has to wipe away jellified slick and lube when he finishes peeing—but nowhere near as bad as he usually is. Peter must’ve helped him shower.

He limps back out, and sees his phone and a tray of fruit, crackers, and cheese under a clear plastic cover on the counter by the mini-fridge. He tucks his phone under his good arm and swipes the tray before hobbling back to bed. He wants to sleep for at least another 24 hours, but seeing the food made his stomach cramp with hunger, so. Eating first. Especially since he doesn’t have to do anything but chew and swallow.

When he’s done, he checks his phone. He signed in on the Monday, the first official day of heat week—which is ten days, why even call it a week—and he fully expects it to be Friday by now. He’s lost longer to hellish, drawn-out heats when sedated, and if he’s done already—and he _is_ done, he can feel it—then five days is about right.

It’s Wednesday. 6pm.

He’s still staring at the screen when the door opens, and Peter comes in. “Ah, you’re awake. And I see you’ve eaten. Good. How’re you feeling?”

He swallows. “Confused,” he rasps.

Peter nods. “I’m not surprised. Your fever kept spiking, made you delirious. You scared me when you started hallucinating.”

He doesn’t remember. “I hallucinated?” He shakes his head slowly.

Peter comes closer, sitting next to him on the bed. “Briefly. It stopped once I got a dose of your regular meds into you.”

He kind of remembers that. “How—when did my heat break?” His voice cracks, and he clears his throat. “And why so early?”

“Ah.” Peter’s quiet for a long moment, long enough to make Stiles worry. “In answer to your first question, about six hours ago. You’ve been asleep about four.”

That doesn’t make sense. “What? I was only in heat for, what—two days?”

Peter touches his knee gently. “I had to give you organics.”

The breath punches out of him. But before he dissolves into full-blown panic, Peter goes on. “I did exactly what we talked about when we made our heat plan, didn’t knot inside you.”

At that, a hazy memory surfaces. “I—there was a gag?” He touches his lips, finds them tender.

Peter nods. “There was. You were heat-drunk, and kept trying to take more. The ring in the gag was too small to let my knot through, so you couldn’t choke yourself.”

He doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he stays quiet. He’s still kinda groggy, which is why it takes a bit for implication to hit him. “Wait—are you saying that the organics ended my heat?”

Peter tips his head. “It seems that way, but it’s too early to know for sure. There were other factors involved. The important bit is how you feel now.”

Stiles pauses, and really thinks about how to answer that. He’s never been this physically comfortable after a heat, despite the sore knees and tiredness. He’s not covered in dried sweat and slick and blood. He didn’t claw himself up. He’s pretty sure he didn’t puke. He’s also never had a heat end this fast. So, as hard as it is to admit, he murmurs, “Pretty good, all things considered. Thank you, Peter.”

Peter leans in and kisses his cheek. “Happy to hear that, sweetheart. Now rest—the hard part’s over, but it’ll be a day or so before you’re well enough to leave.”

He rolls his eyes, but Peter’s right—curtailed or not, heat is hard on his body, and he does need the rest. “Fine. I’ll see you at checkout?”

For some reason, it makes Peter smirk. “Oh, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Notes for my conceptualization of this omegaverse: 
> 
> Man/woman are secondary genders. A/B/O designation is biological sex. Alphas have male-typical genitalia, plus a knot. Male betas are the same, sans knot. Omegas have female-typical genitalia, plus heats. Female betas are the same, without heats. Alphas and omegas are set apart from betas in that they typically have a strong drive to breed, and are highly fertile. Also: because "mother" and "father" are tied to a male/female gender binary, I've used "sire" and "dam" instead, which refer to the impregnating and impregnated parents respectively.
> 
> I can also be found [here](https://queerfictionwriter.tumblr.com/).


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